Zeal and Fury: A Deathwatch Story

[Sirrus]

This is going to be a story about a Deathwatch Kill-Team, told from the perspective of a Blood Raven Librarian seconded to the elite xenos-hunting organization. My goal is to go for around 15-20 pages or around 7,500-8,000 words, but it may turn into something episodic, with each mission being the next chapter of the story. Anyway, we'll see how it goes... Any constructive comments or feedback is welcome. Thanks for reading!

 

Sissala Refinery
Planet Qalat
Korianis Sector
Ultima Segmentum
998.M41

Stefanus heard the aliens before he saw them.

The interior of the refinery was dim and dank, electricity long cut off to the facility and severed pipes trickling streams of water onto the steel grated floors. Qalat, a fair distance from the system’s sun, experienced long nights and brutal winters, and were it not for the precious fields of promethium that lay deep beneath the frost-glazed tundra, the backwater world would not have warranted much attention. The Imperium of Man needed every last precious commodity required to keep its massive war machine rumbling, however, and so it happened that the planet’s primary processing plant hosted a whole company of Space Marines drawn from the Blood Ravens chapter.

And they were not alone.

It began as a light scratching before turning into an abrasive grind, like someone scraping bone against metal. The marines swiveled their heads left and right, from the ceiling to the floor, but discovered only empty corners, tables covered with sprawled tools and equipment, and upturned barrels and storage containers. Of course, they also saw themselves, bedecked in their maroon-colored power armor, a resplendent raven across their chests, along with skull-faced helmets with emerald lenses. They could not, however, detect any of the creatures in their midst, save for the ominous rasping.    

 

“Bolters ready,” Stefanus’ sergeant said, priming his weapon.

The rest of his squad imitated the action, the sound repeating across the room like an echo. After the last firearm was readied, a new din arose, this time from the marines’ auspex scanners in their helms. Alerts blared, announcing danger nearby. Yet still the aliens remained cloaked in the shadows, an invisible enemy with the marines at their mercy. The famed guardians of the Imperium knew no fear, it was said, but at the very least they acknowledged a justified caution for these harrowing encounters.

Closing his eyes, Stefanus reached out into the darkness with his mind, but instantly recoiled and sealed his psychic connection. He was no novice with his mental powers, exhaustively trained in channeling the energies of the Warp, but there was something perverted and maddening seeping through from the immaterial realm. It resembled a jumbled conversation filtered through static, a buzzing that almost had a pattern but did not quite. Some speculated that this was how the aliens communicated, a shared consciousness that contained their basest instincts and urges. If that was true, Stefanus felt, then this was a race that knew only throbbing hate and insatiable hunger.

From nowhere, a curved blade came slashing down toward a marine, catching him between his helmet and his gorget. With a swift swipe, it extracted itself, taking with it a geyser of blood. The marine slumped forward, his armor clanging against the floor, as dozens of bolters fired at once in the direction of the attack. The element of surprise exhausted, the monster stood tall, unashamed of its nightmarish demeanor. It stood over seven feet tall, a bony violet frill above an ivory insectoid face and emotionless golden eyes. Its mouth curled into a malevolent grin, showing rows of needle-like fangs. Its body consisted of an external skeleton made of dense chitin, and from its thick torso emerged two pairs of raptorial legs: one pair as large and sharp as great scythes, the second pair a set of powerful claws. What made the alien all the more terrifying was that it was totally biological, an organism crafted by some unholy intelligence to be an efficient and ruthless killer. Unlike the marines, who had to be trained over decades and genetically enhanced through agonizing surgeries, the Tyranid began its life with the predisposition toward the pitiless slaughter of those that dared stand against it.

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A plethora of bolts collided with its exoskeleton, some even doing damage. Viscous bile oozed from its wounds. Still, it staggered forward, grabbing another marine and yanking him forward, talons embedded in his breastplate. The unfortunate Blood Raven screamed in anguish as the alien skewered him from the front and his brothers shot him from the back. Was the xeno using the marine as a shield?

A cacophony of shrieks pierced the room. Suddenly, a swarm of creatures herded the marines, miniature versions of their larger cousin, joined in a mindless headlong charge into the company. They died easily, falling to a single round, but for every one that died, a handful more appeared, until it seemed as if they were submerging every squad in a living sea of murderous arthropods. Soon, all Stefanus could see was a blur of carapaces, armor cut to ribbons, bolters blasting recklessly, entrails ripped from steel-clad shells… All accompanied by the demonic music of shouts over screeching.

Thankfully, Stefanus had excised all inklings of trepidation long ago. Once, in another lifetime, he had been a man-at-arms on a feudal world, an arrogant lancer ignorant that anything existed beyond his petty fiefdom. In truth, he had been an insignificant and insecure soul. His mentors in the chapter had whittled away his weaknesses, his myriad defects removed, to become an agent of the Emperor’s chastisements and retribution, a paladin of an eternal crusade against the enemies of the humanity. He was a veteran of countless battles and skirmishes just like this one, against rebels, heretics, and heathen xenos, and had always emerged the victor. He did feel fear, he had to admit, but not for his own sake. He shuddered only at the thought of expiring before meeting his mission objectives, of falling with his duties unfinished.

“For the Emperor!” he shouted, his voice heavy with holiness.

The words echoed over the vox channel, the still-living Blood Ravens of his company affirming their noble service with equal zeal. Stefanus watched a brother succumb to a devouring wave of the small aliens, the fallen marine shooting even as he slipped beneath the horde. The larger Tyranid, meanwhile, tore the arms off another comrade, the limbs flung away without care. If it felt pain from the attack inflicted upon it, it showed as much concern for its imperiled mortality as it did for that of its victims.

Someday, Stefanus knew, his death would come. Marines did not enjoy the dubious luxury of retirement. There was no ending to the threats they had to quash, the worlds they had to liberate, the blasphemies they had to purge. Eventually, the hour would come when he would draw his last breath and escape his ephemeral existence to reside in glory and magnificence at the right hand of the holy master of mankind.

He clenched his teeth and gripped his bolter tight. Today was not that day.

 

Watch Station Prescience

Segmentum Tempestus

999.M41

 

Stefanus swept away bitter ashes of an old memory from his mind, bringing his focus back to his breathing. He felt the jolt of adrenaline running through his veins, urging his muscles to tense, but he resisted the impulse and let it pass. He breathed in heavily, the air filling from the bottom of his stomach to the top of his torso, and then exhaled long and steady, sending out the stress with the air. He was aware of a dozen emotions and ideas, but each washed over him and dissipated as fleeting disruptions. Gradually, he came to feel detached, as if drifting suspended in a void as vast and empty as the hard vacuum outside the space station, a floating mass untethered to any material anchor.

 

The cold, indifferent eyes of his god watched his prayers and meditations. The icon displayed the divine emperor standing atop a mountain summit, tall and awe-inspiring, adorned in a suit of resplendent golden armor. A luminous halo framed the roughcast face of civilization’s guardian. There was nothing intricate about the portrait, and it did little justice to its subject – if any mere representation could capture something so sublime. This modest holy image dominated the bleak chapel, casting a shadow over ebbing candles and strips of sacred parchment. However barren the shrine, it served its purpose for Stefanus, who sat as he often did, cross-legged and humbly robed, seeking the sanctification of the hallowed master and commander of all mankind.

 

“I was ignorant and defenseless before you called me,” Stefanus said in supplication, his voice a whisper. “I knew nothing of discipline or purpose. By your grace, I became something more than man, the deliverer of your judgment, the bringer of doom to your enemies. I turned my life and my will over to you, my Emperor, and humbly ask you to remove my defects and fragility. With you in my heart, I do not fear death. I only dread dying before I have carried out that which you ask of me.”

 

Unmoved by Stefanus’ pleading, the idol of the Emperor stared into the middle distance, the flickering of the candles’ flames forming eerie shadows on its features.

 

A familiar psychic presence shattered the serenity of the moment. Stefanus rose to his feet, his powerful and muscular body moving with feline agility. He blew out the candles one by one and turned to the door, facing it even before it opened with its droning, buzzing hiss. He smiled at the older man who stepped forward from the hall.

 

“I hope I did not disturb your contemplation,” the man said, not audibly, but through the projection of the words into Stefanus’ head.

 

Oriax had become something of a mentor to Stefanus since the latter joined the Deathwatch several years past. Although they hailed from different chapters – Oriax from the enigmatic Dark Angels, Stefanus from the Blood Ravens – they shared a command of psychic powers. Oriax, however, was much more advanced than Stefanus, having risen to the rank of codicier since his seconding. He was well-versed in all manner of lore surrounding the Imperium and various alien races, and was also a particularly talented interpreter of auguries and omens. Of all the Librarians who dwelt within the gargantuan Watch Fortress, he was one of the most respected and admired.

 

“Not at all,” Stefanus said, greeting Oriax with a courteous nod.

 

The elder Librarian studied the humble likeness of the Emperor. “Many brothers are dedicated to their faith, Brother Stefanus, but are you are especially pious.”

 

When not in the field for mission or honing his abilities in a drill, Stefanus spent most of his time ruminating in his unadorned, steel-walled alcove, a litany ever upon his lips. “Faith in the Emperor brings me gratification. It is my warmth and repose.”

 

“And yet faith without works is dead.” Oriax motioned to the door.

 

Stefanus walked through the passage, an eyebrow raised in inquiry. “I am not sure that I understand, Brother Codicier. I have aided in many works, slaughtering the barbarous xenos and vile heretics with my brothers over many missions.”

 

Oriax only smiled, though Stefanus heard him chuckle. He led the two of them down the corridor and deeper into the colossal space station. Watch Station Prescience was one of the many command stations belonging to the Deathwatch, a haven for the many Kill-Teams headquartered there. Prescience specifically was a facility built into an excavated asteroid outfitted with training centers, fleet docks and heavy ordnance. From this site, the Deathwatch monitored all alien activity in its division of the galaxy.

 

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“I do not dispute your service, brother.” Oriax’s silent speech was solicitude tempered with respect. “I have of late, however, perceived that our mutual talent weighs heavily upon you. You have long lived with your psychic mutation and have undergone the rigorous training and indoctrination that comes with the position of Librarian, and yet I sense you seek out spiritual practice not simply for sustenance, but as a shelter.”

 

Stefanus bristled at the suggestion, but he knew better than to attempt to deceive someone so adroit at breaking down mental barriers. “It is our blessing,” he said reluctantly, “since our rare faculty enables us to assail our enemies and glimpse the future the way our brothers cannot. Yet, it is also our misfortune, as it makes us tempting targets for corruption and the influence of Chaos. My own life is insignificant, but I worry what should happen were I to blunder or lapse in the wrong moment.”

 

A reassuring hand clasped Stefanus by the shoulder. Oriax used his words now, speaking with a smooth baritone. “They say that one of the Emperor’s Finest should know no fear, but that is untrue. He should reject paralyzing cowardice. To understand and heed the dangers that threaten him, however, is no vice. You do well to recognize that there is a legion of infernal adversaries who would gladly possess your potent mind, to say nothing of the genetically-enhanced body and enormous arsenal you enjoy.”

 

Stefanus arched his eyebrow higher. “Do you, too, feel this burden?”

 

“Countless are the times I have scanned and studied the thinking of aliens, hoping to gleam some divination of their next move or their true motivations. I have engaged in conflicts of the will with Eldar sorcerers in the molding and manipulation of the Warp. In some instances, success on a mission has meant fighting a foe psychically as well as physically. Each time, however, I was aware of the taint left in here.” He tapped a finger against his temple. “All it takes is one noxious concept to plant itself and grow, and unconscious even to yourself, your mind will rot away from within, sick and mangled, until finally it produces venomous fruit in the form of betrayal and heresy.”

“What, then, is to be done?”

 

“Faith will serve you well, but you must also work at mastering your mind and invigorating your willpower. Treat your psyche like a garden, knowing every inch of soil, its purity your utmost interest. Pluck out, without hesitation, anything wild and rank you come across.” His words were serious and desperate, but he spoke with fatherly authority and confidence. “Do not hesitate to ask my counsel either, brother.” Oriax stopped, turned to Stefanus and extended an arm, thick and sinewy, to him.

 

Stefanus clasped Oriax’s forearm, just beneath the elbow, and Oriax returned the grip. “I will, brother. I should have come to you with these thoughts sooner.”

 

"Also, do not let Brother Norbert and his prejudices rile you."

 

Stefanus let out a soft, acrimonious laugh. “I am not sure I can withstand the deep cuts of a Black Templar."

 

Oriax pointed to the room they stood outside of, revealing the destination of their journey. “Brother O’gun awaits you, brother. Emperor preserve you. Farewell.”

 

As his adviser departed, Stefanus noticed a pang of annoyance. A comprehensive array of tests and evaluations preceded and followed every Deathwatch mission, and their tedium constantly tested his patience. He endured decades of tutelage as a neophyte when he first entered the Blood Ravens, and he underwent extensive training after his recruitment to the Deathwatch, all trials and challenges met without complaint. Nevertheless, the hours of prodding and fluid extraction inflicted upon him a boredom more unpleasant than any fiery baptism he had yet experienced. He took some refuge in the knowledge, however, that a visit to the apothecary meant that a mission was forthcoming, and that soon he would be of service to the glorious Imperium.

Upon entering the medical bay, Stefanus saw a charcoal-colored head peer up at him with burning scarlet eyes set deep into a long, angular skull. The apothecary examined a tube filled with neon pink liquid, the entrance of his brother only a momentary distraction from his research. “One moment,” said O’gun as he rose from his seat, setting down the tube among a long row of its siblings.

Stefanus wordlessly moved to the narrow slab in the center of the room, shed his cotton robe and lay naked on the cold palette. He fortified himself, not just for the probing exam to come, but for O’gun’s off-setting, exotic appearance. The apothecary came from the Salamanders, a chapter known for their unique physiology. Intense radiation on their home-world had caused a rare reaction with the Space Marine gene-seed, and the skin of every Salamanders member transformed into an unsettling onyx, their eyes becoming red as garnets. In his many years, Stefanus had seen many human beings of many shades and hues, and no longer gave much thought to the variations in melanin, the pigmentation of the iris, or any such trivial details. Yet he could not deny that there was something effortlessly intimidating about how the Salamanders looked.

Standing over Stefanus, the apothecary smiled from lobe to lobe, his white teeth a sharp contrast against his ebon face. “I trust this day finds you well, brother.”

“My wounds have all but healed.”

“You did well to avoid more grievous injuries,” O’gun said, genuine esteem in his voice. “I have witnessed those foul creatures maim our comrades more than once.”

He placed an instrument upon Stefanus’ head, a metallic brush-like object, and began to rub it against his extremely scarred scalp. Stefanus kept his chestnut brown hair cropped short, small fringes hanging over a forehead dotted with the bolts from cybernetic implants. His hazel eyes browsed the ceiling, peering out from atop an aquiline nose and a thin mouth. His flat cheeks bore blemishes and craters from battles major and minor, a testimony to the petty trauma aliens and rebels had managed to inflict upon him. Granted, such wounds would have killed an ordinary man a hundred times over, but to one of the Adeptus Astartes, they were trifling cuts and bruises.

“It was not the first time I faced the Tyranids,” Stefanus replied, “nor will it be the last. They are as plentiful as they are malignant.”

“Brother Norbert certainly thinned their number on that day.”

Stefanus felt a flare of rage, but suppressed it. “Brother Norbert is a commendable warrior. He is a master at close combat.”

O’gun exchanged instruments for an oblong rod with a light on one end, flashing it in Stefanus’ eyes. Without blinking, the Blood Raven continued to gaze upward. “He is as quick with a chainsword as he is with his judgment, I will give him that.”

“The Black Templars are acclaimed for their religious fervor.”

“As well as their intolerance for psykers.”

Stefanus inspected the intentions of the apothecary, but found no malice there, no desire for provocation. Still, he wondered what the game was. “The creed of Norbert’s chapter is what it is, and it is of no concern of mine.”

“Perhaps,” O’gun said, shrugging, seemingly finding no fault in Stefanus’ visual organs. “Indeed, a blinkered mind can be a great asset for a soldier. Yet, if he permits his intolerance to interfere with the chemistry of the Kill-Team, the results could be disastrous. Entire systems hang in the balance whenever the Deathwatch takes the field.”

“I know this.”

“You should also know that doubt can be as poisonous as any other form of corruption. It tears away at the brotherhood that sustains us, from the smallest squad to the grandest chapter. Not just the doubt one brother bears to another – but also the self-doubt that worms its way into a brother’s thinking, spreading like a cancer.”

“Do you have a test for doubt in your lab, brother?” Stefanus asked with dry mockery.

O’gun responded by stabbing his arm with a protracted needle at the tip of a large syringe, sucking out a torrent of blood into a vial. “There are limits even to my medicine. I will say, however, that it is not just the psychically gifted who are susceptible to Chaotic defilement. Righteousness can be the forerunner to hubris, which can be the harbinger of a downfall. Brother Norbert should tend to the virtue of his own soul.”

“Are you trying to make me feel better, apothecary?”

O’gun snickered in amusement. “You have come to the wrong place for that, brother.” From a table he lifted a sterile apparatus that resembled something from primitive feudal world. “I warn you: this is going to sting.”

[Sirrus]

Trellex IV
Subsector Cydoemus
Segmentum Tempestus
999.M41

The pod plunged through the atmosphere of Trellex IV, a stream of fire and smoke following behind it. Inside, the stiff pull of gravity weighed on Stefanus and his Kill-Team, their augmented bodies the only thing keeping them from pulling apart like tender meat. After an eternity of difficult descent, the rockets equipped to the pod burst to life and pushed the craft in the direction of its drop zone. Moments later, it landed with an earsplitting crash and sent up a haze of rock and rubble. Like the blooming bud of a flower, the pod’s doors folded open and released the harnesses of its occupants.

Stefanus saw they had landed in the middle of a battlefield. Trellex IV had once been a peaceful world, though an advanced one. A Forge World, the Priesthood of Mars used the industrial planet to mass produce weapons and vehicles for the armed forces of the Imperium. With numerous wars on multiple fronts, there was never an end to the demand for greater production, and each Forge World was a precious commodity. Trellex IV held particular value for its expertise in manufacturing rare variants of tanks and personnel carriers. Accordingly, when Terra realized that the planet stood in the path of a rampaging Ork horde, its defense became a priority. Several regiments of the Imperial Guard had arrived to slow down the unruly mob of green-skinned savages, but there was no illusion they could beat the Orks. Their purpose was to buy valuable time until Stefanus and his Kill-Team could save the world with a single, decisive strike.

Stefanus had visited Forge Worlds before, and so he expected towering factories and warehouses of steel and iron, cranes carrying crates and containers as big as spaceships. Yet what greeted him on the surface of Trellex IV was not the color of drab metals but a moss-colored mass spreading in all directions, vast and undulating. To call the Orks gorilla-like in their appearance was a gross insult to primates everywhere, but with their hunched bodies, sloping foreheads and pronounced underbites, there was a resemblance, however faint. Each carried a ramshackle weapon, some slapdash firearms that looked like pipes laden onto trigger mechanisms, others inelegant clubs riddled with nails and studs. As he always did, Stefanus sensed nothing from the Orks’ thoughts other than an urge to murder and destroy, a mentality so basic it even lacked the self-preservation inclination of even the most elementary lifeforms. The Orks cared more for fighting than for their own survival, and it showed in their mindless sorties into battle.

The Kill-Team had made planetfall behind the front line, but only just. They were surrounded on all sides by Orks surging northward, toward where desperate Guardsmen protected the last of the functioning workshops on the ruined world. The aliens had not noticed the pod until it had slammed into their ranks, squashing a portion of them, and even then, some had been so single-minded as to continue making their advance. When most of the Kill-Team exited firing flamers, however, the blaze scorching Ork flesh grabbed their attention. Stefanus was among those roasting the xenos, as was the apothecary O’gun. The Salamanders reveled in using such instruments of war, their penchant for them bordering on pyromania. The chapter also excelled at the forging of blades, it was said, but Stefanus had never seen the apothecary handle ore and go near a smelter. His love for fire, however, was on full display now, the thrill as plain on his face as it was in his thoughts. Many Astartes chapters had such quirks, Stefanus knew, and as long as they were not heretical or dangerous, he avoided making rash judgments.

The flamers did not inspire fear or forethought in the Orks, who foolhardily kept attacking the marines in rushes. Those who somehow survived the flamers met their end when they reached Gracchus, the field commander of the Kill-Team. A magisterial Ultramarine, Gracchus was a steadfast follower of the Codex Astartes, and its many prescriptions and rules for engagement. His decorous manner made him rather tiresome to be around, but he was the quintessential soldier and an exemplary leader in battle. A spurt of hot blood spouted from the neck of an Ork as Gracchus hacked it with his chainsword. “Does anyone have eyes on the target?” he asked over the vox channel.

The staid voice of their Watch Captain buzzed in their ears. “He’s not far in front of you. Keep pushing forward.” The name of Ugo Rezzori rang with honor and tribute throughout the Deathwatch, an Imperial Fist whose vigil with the order extended over a century. He monitored the mission from overhead, observing from a Thunderhawk gunship circling the combat zone. “There’s a war machine approaching from your rear.”

Stefanus swung his head and saw the mechanical walker slouching toward them, a giant barrel-shaped torso furnished clumsily to shaky legs. Its body coincided with the oval-shaped head of an Ork, with a broad jawline, sunken cheeks, small nose and ample forehead. It was comprised of patchwork plating bolted together, unevenly painted red and white, and it belched smoke as it stumbled. Its odd gait no doubt resulted from its multiple arms, each ending with a different weapon: a buzz saw, a sizable pincer, even a rocket launcher. Stefanus recognized it as an Orkish parody of the Dreadnought, the walking tanks in which venerated heroes of the Adeptus Astartes were interred so that they might fight on forever with their chapters. It was unknown if the Orks knowingly copied the Dreadnought, but Stefanus speculated that the machine was born less from active imitation than a coincidence brought about by the Orks’ crude desire to kill.

 

“I will make short work of it.” The throaty, rough voice belonged to Ulfgar, the heavy weapons expert of the squad. He carried a Soundstrike-pattern missile launcher over his shoulder, the device fed by a missile rack and auto-loader secured to his back. He let a missile fly, and with astonishing accuracy, it landed just above the joints connecting the bulky mid-section of the walker to its lower limbs. It shook and faltered but did not fall. The loader automatically packed another missile from the rack into place. Ulfgar steadied his aim and in mere moments another missile sped through the air and into the Ork walker. This time the hit was immobilizing, and the walker reclined backwards until it toppled over fumblingly, ending up turtle-like on its back. A haze of smog rose from it. Destroyed or just crippled, it was no more threat to the marines now.

Ulfgar snorted, the closest the veteran came to laughing. The hoary Space Wolf had traversed much of the known galaxy and likely had massacred life on every planet he had visited. Unlike other chapters, the Space Wolves placed their most senior warriors into their long-range Devastator squads, just one of the many ways they eschewed the conventional practices of the Space Marines. The chapter only entrusted a marine with providing suppressive fire and anti-vehicle support once he had fought in other battle roles, so that he might best know how to use special firepower to shape a fight. Within the chapter, these Space Wolves earned the sobriquet “Long Fangs,” as their mutated gene-seed found expression through doglike features, including elongated canine teeth. Ulfgar was no exception, his extended incisors sticking out of a mouth surrounded by a great salt-and-pepper beard. He was an artist with even the most ungainly and elephantine of weapons, rarely failing to hit any targets within eyesight.

“The target is incoming,” said the Watch Captain. “You should see him.”

Indeed, it was hard to miss him. From the front lines came a rumbling pack of Orks on warbikes, hideous riotous decrepit motor vehicles that zoomed across the ground in defiance of science and logic. The frames were painted red and white and decorated with human skulls and spikes, the wheels designed for even the most unforgiving terrain. On their sides were mounted machine guns, firing incessantly, almost as large as the absurd engines at the bikes’ rears, a sloppy hodgepodge of turbines, nozzles and compressors that, by some inexplicable means, functioned.

The lead Ork biker was their target, a hulking warboss named Kadrak infamous for his many raids in the system. He had recently painted his shoddy, broken-down armor a fresh coat of red, and from it hung neckless of newly-plucked teeth – Ork, not human, judging from their size – and from his back waved a standard showing a grinning red sun with silver rays. He laughed manically, roused by the extreme speed he and his followers were enjoying on their bikes, and relishing the bloodshed they were causing. He was riding full throttle toward the marines and the drop pod, his voice roaring just above the regular shooting of his guns and the thunder of his engine.

Some of the shells from the guns hit Stefanus, but his armor was able to absorb the majority of them. There were few weapons regularly encountered in the galaxy that could reliably penetrate Astartes power armor, and he doubted the Orks possessed any such ammunition. (Then again, he also would have doubted that their junk-like weapons and vehicles would have worked at all.) Nevertheless, enough direct blasts could bring down any Space Marine, and it was unwise to let your enemy’s shots go unanswered.

 

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“I have this,” Ulfgair said, his voice languid over the vox. Sure enough, a missile erupted from his launcher and landed right at the front fork of Kadrak’s bike, where the forward-facing wheel and axle connected to the frame. The rickety bike came apart easily, its debris crashing into the bikers that flanked their chieftain, causing some of them to spin out. Kadrak himself bounced a few times on the ground before coming to a skidding stop several dozen yards from the pod. Without pausing he rose to his feet and ran forward, still shouting angry gibberish. Laden down with his armor, he moved much slower than he had on his bike, but he was still menacing, especially with the weapon strapped to his right fist: a power klaw, a piston-powered gauntlet with sharpened blades instead of fingers, stained with dried blood. The metal talon sparkled with energy, sheathed in a field capable of penetrating the heaviest armor. Any grief the Ork warlord felt for his lost bike found expression in his fierce, frothing rage.

“Go, Norbert,” Gracchus said.

A black-and-white blur ascended skyward from the pod, a monumental mass carried high by jets on a jump pack. When the marine came crashing down to earth, he did so just steps from Kadrak. From the top of his death’s head helmet to the tread of his sabatons he stood eight feet, surpassing even the imposing Ork. The heraldry on his right shoulder identified him as one of the Black Templars, arguably the most zealous of the Adeptus Astartes. Scrips of holy parchment, inscribed with scripture praising the Emperor and condemning all alien life, covered the black cross with its V-shaped points. Instantly, the marine swung a grandiose thunder hammer in his right hand, the head crackling with blue lightning as it grazed Kadrak’s shoulder. The weapon took off a chunk of armor and caused the warboss to teeter backwards, but the Ork remained on his feet. He in turn responded with a swipe of his klaw, but Norbert’s storm shield masterfully deflected the strike. The bulwark crackled with energy as the klaw hit it. The shield withstood the blow, but it would not endure long against such powerful impacts.

Stefanus turned away from the duel, confident that his brother would be victorious, just as he had so many times before. Norbert had been serving with the Deathwatch for many years before Stefanus’ recruitment, training and ultimate induction, and before that he had been a champion with his chapter. When Stefanus joined his Kill-Team, the irascible Templar had made his disapproval plain from the outset. His protestations never reached the level of insubordination, but there was never any question about how Norbert felt to be fighting alongside a psyker – especially one drawn from the Blood Ravens. Stefanus did his utmost to not ruminate on his brothers’ inability to accept him, for fear that it would implant doubt and suspicion in his own mind. He took a deep breath and cleared his head, focusing instead on the Orks.

Another wave erupted into flames as he spewed a river of fire at them. No sooner had these Orks collapsed as smoldering heaps before another drove of their brothers replaced them. Some began to flank him outside the range of his flamer. He summoned the strength of his mind to push them back. With a telekinetic shove, he launched several onrushing Orks onto their backs, who in turn caused their brethren behind them to tumble. Stefanus aimed his flamer at the pile and set them alight, a bonfire of bubbling, festering viridian skin and body tissue. Still more came, always more…

“Norbert!” Gracchus shouted over the vox, a trace of alarm in his voice.

Stefanus glanced toward where Kadrak and Norbert had fighting in single combat. To his surprise, the warboss had gained the upper hand. The power klaw repeatedly crashed onto the storm shield, over and over, like a stick beating a drum, the two energy fields competing for stamina. The shield lost and came apart, and out of pure reflex, Norbert raised an armored arm to block the next hit. The klaw ripped through the ceramite with ease, submersing its dagger-like digits to Norbert’s flesh. Like a predator playing with his prey, Kadrak tossed the marine loose from his grip, and Norbert landed on his side. The thunder hammer dropped from his other hand and landed out of his reach. He lay drooping at the feet of the Kadrak, waiting for the coup de grace.

It never came. Acting out of instinct, Stefanus raised a hand and directed his mental puissance in the direction of the warboss. Suddenly, a hole in reality appeared behind Kadrak. Where just a moment before they had been empty space, a churning whirlpool now opened a tempestuous passage between the material and the Warp. The forces of Chaos began to pull in everything around the vortex, sucking in dirt and rock at first, before gradually the smaller, more stunted Orks drifted off their feet and into the turbulent portal. So too did it drag Kadrak, inch by inch, into the riling mouth to Hell, though the Ork put up a spectacular resistance. He tried to match the violence of the vacuum with his own strength and willpower, but there was no denying the Warp. At last, he plunged into the depths of that infernal nexus of terror, swallowed by Chaos.

A similar fate awaited Norbert if the vortex remained open. The Templar rolled onto his chest and dug his fingers into the ground, crawling back toward the pod. His feet hovered off the ground, yanked toward the gateway. If he could not cling to the physical world, he would be lost and damned forever in the confines of Warpspace. The demons that called the Sea of Souls home would gleefully devour his reverent soul.

“Close it!” Gracchus ordered over the vox.

“I’m trying!” the Librarian answered through clenched teeth.

Having not known how exactly he had opened the portal, Stefanus was unsure that he could even control it. The vortex was maintaining itself, sustained by feeding on and consuming whatever entered it. Rather than attempting to will it out of existence, Stefanus tried to close it, and this proved more fruitful: the vortex’s radius started to shrink, the swirling spiral becoming smaller the more he strained. He next tried to push it backward, deeper into the Ork front lines, and this too worked, to a degree. The effort came with a cost, however; a pounding headache soon turned into a pulsating migraine, his brain burning white hot every time the vortex waned or shifted. Despite himself, he let out a cry: a stifled moan that did not fully convey the suffering he was experiencing.

It was not enough. More Orks fed the portal, but still it hungered, still it demanded more. Even in its declining state its pull was strong enough to keep Norbert sliding backwards, his armor creaking as he struggled for an anchor to the earth. Abruptly, the engines mounted to his back burst alive, pushing him toward the drop pod at a speed that was a fraction of their true potential. He plowed through the soil, leaving a trench behind him. His brothers fell upon him when he came close, O’gun providing cover with his flamer as Gracchus sprinted to the crusader, grabbing him by the wrists and dragging him closer to the pod. Thanks to the boost from the turbines, Norbert had escaped the pull of the demonic gyre. His wounds were serious, however, and O’gun would need to strip his damaged armor to inspect the injuries Kadrak had dispensed.

Stefanus had dropped his flamer and his arms, now fully extended, met one another at the wrists. He bit hard on his bottom lip as, slowly, with deliberate pace, his fingers intertwined. In mimicry, the conduit to the Immaterium also folded in on itself, eating away at itself. In his ears, Stefanus heard the sound of devilish chortling, and he wondered if his brothers could hear it too. Every pore on his body seeped a frosty sweat; never before had his ceramite armor felt like such a prison. He clasped his hands together, palm to palm, knuckles white, and watched as the ethereal cyclone finally sealed itself shut. The diabolical glee he heard reached its crescendo, the cackling becoming tittering before disappearing completely. The pressure left him, the exertion gradually giving way to an irrepressible fatigue. Before he knew it, he fell clumsily to his knees, and could not prevent his chest falling forward to the ground. He clutched at his consciousness, but it slipped from his weak grasp. He was in shock, totally benumbed.

Before he passed out, he heard Gracchus and the Watch Captain talking over the vox, their voices heated but not understandable. The Thunderhawk gunship was landing. With the warboss dead, the horde that had followed Kadrak would fall apart, devolving into infighting before retreating off the world. The Kill-Team’s mission had been a success, but Stefanus felt defeated. He had used his powers without prudence, out of impulse. He had almost sent a hurt brother into the Warp. He felt shame on his weary shoulders as he felt someone pick him up from his slouch and carry him onto the gunship, and as his eyes closed involuntarily, he thought only of his own failure.
 

[Sirrus]

Watch Station Prescience

Segmentum Tempestus

999.M41

 

Still attired in his power armor, Norbert walloped the tabletop in front of him with his ironclad fist. The jarring sound of the concussion was almost as severe as the angry stare he shot at Stefanus. “I won’t stand for it!” he roared. “I won’t fight beside a witch!” He spat the word with vinegary rancor, his muscles tensed, his tone harsh and accusing.

 

“You will fight with whom you are ordered, brother!” Gracchus spoke in his paternal way, firm but sober. He clearly disliked Norbert’s outburst, but it was plain that he too regarded Stefanus with doubt. He might not have shared the puritanical beliefs of the Templar, but as a field commander, he perceived what had transpired Trellex IV as jeopardizing the Kill-Team and a reflection of the psyker’s unpredictability.

 

The meeting was a debriefing, but it felt more like a trial to Stefanus. If it was, he would have been all too ready to confess his crimes. Despite his intentions, he had placed a battle-brother on a razor’s edge through his recklessness. That the mission had been successful was irrelevant; such a clumsy use of the Warp was unworthy of the Adeptus Astartes, to say nothing of the elite ranks of the Deathwatch. He hung his head, unable to meet the eyes of Watch Captain that presided over the gathering.

 

Ugo Rezzori stroked his neatly-trimmed beard and grumbled. “Brother Stefanus acted heedlessly, it is true,” he said, his voice deadpan. “Yet it is also true that he acted to defend a brother facing death at the hands of the vile alien he was sent to destroy.”

 

Norbert seethed, reminded of his inability to overpower Kadrak. “The greenskin bastard struck lucky! Besides, I would have preferred dying in the light of the Emperor than to be condemned to an eternity of torture in the home of the Dark Gods!” The veins in his equilaterally-shaped head bulged, his fair skin turning bright red. Even his shortly-cut hair seemed to be standing up as spiny barbs on his chipped, scarred scalp.

 

“He blames you to avoid blaming himself,” a voice said inside Stefanus’ head. “Just as you blame yourself too much for doing what you thought was right.”

           

It was his mentor, Oriax, speaking to him with silent speech. The senior Librarian approached the Watch Captain with the easy manner of an old friend. “The error was not that Brother Stefanus utilized his psychic powers,” he said, “but rather that he lashed out with them. He also possesses greater power than we perhaps realized. Instead of simply smiting the Ork, he opened a wormhole that pierced the Veil. That is a great feat for a Librarian, especially for someone as relatively untrained as he…”

 

“Withcraft!” Norbert objected. “All of it, nothing but infernal withcraft!”

 

“Silence!” Rezzori bellowed with such clout and command that even Norbert stepped back. “Theological debates are for priests and philosopher-monks. We are soldiers, first and foremost, and as long as the Imperium of Man sanctions the use of psykers, we will make use of them – and tolerate their use! Am I clear, brother?”

 

Rendered timid for the first time in Stefanus’ memory, Norbert nodded.

 

“Still,” continued Rezzori, becoming dispassionate again, “we cannot ignore what happened. The Deathwatch is entrusted with too serious a charge. As such, I have asked for the aid of Inquisitor Serrault in this matter. Please, Inquisitor, do come in.”

 

The door to the chamber opened with an electric purr. Two figures entered, a man and woman, dressed in robes. Stefanus recognized the woman as Lucelle Serrault, an Inquisitor of the Ordo Xenus, the arm of the imperial tribunal assigned to the eradication of inhuman life. She was tall, lithe and blonde, her long golden hair tied up into an austere bun. She would have been beautiful were her soft features not marred by a cybernetic implant that covered the right side of her head, from crown to cheek. The man at her side was short and lean, wearing dusky armor and, most telling of all, a tall-crowned, narrow-brimmed, somewhat conical hat. This last detail marked him as a member of the Ordo Hereticus, the institution fixated on suppressing heresy and purging those who strayed from the Emperor’s light. His appearance did not omen well for Stefanus, and Oriax shared a look with him that suggested he felt the same way.

 

“Greetings,” Serrault said first, giving a curt nod. “Watch Captain Rezzori contacted me about the incident on Trellex IV. As ever, the Inquisition is more than eager to work with the Deathwatch. After all, we deal with the enemies without… as well as the enemies within.” He motioned to her fellow Inquisitor to introduce himself.

 

 

“I am Inquisitor Cadan Kydones,” the witch hunter said. He had a dark complexion and gentle green eyes that peered out from under his hat. “Inquisitor Serrault invited me to come as an observer of your Kill-Team, purely as a precaution. I want to make clear that in no way do I intend to interfere in the operations of your unit. My investigation, such as it is, will be as unobtrusive as possible to your duties.”

 

Gracchus grimaced. “With all due respect, I have never heard of an investigation of the Inquisition being conducted in a subtle way. Typically, they involve bonfires.”

 

Instead of insulted, Kydones seemed pleased by the statement. “When excising heresy from the ignorant masses, subtlety is usually inappropriate. They only respect direct and obvious consequences. When dealing with the esteemed Adeptus Astartes, especially those seconded to the great Deathwatch, the circumstances change.”

 

Both Gracchus and Oriax seemed to be on the verge of further argument when Stefanus preempted them. “This is for the best,” he said, raising his head at last. “I am no heretic, and the Emperor is my genesis and my ideal. Yet, if some sin were to worm its way into my spirit, so insidious that I would not be aware of it, then I would want the holy Inquisition to find it and strike me down lest I be corrupted. I welcome judgement.”

 

The witch hunter smiled. “A pure heart is an open heart! Your consent to my investigation is, of course, irrelevant, but I appreciate it nonetheless. It is good that you have nothing to hide, Space Marine, as no Chaos contamination eludes our inquiries long. Also, considering you hail from the Blood Ravens chapter, I had feared you might be more difficult. They have a long history of renegade Space Marines, do they not?”

 

Stefanus nodded grimly, but said nothing else.

 

Watch Captain Rezzori broke the tension. “Enough of this for now. Tend to your training, brothers. It will not be long before the Deathwatch is needed again.”

[Sirrus]

Khalas Prime
The Gehenna Cluster
Segmentum Tempestus
999.M41

The Eversor assassin raised his weapon and fired. A mass reactive shell landed in a mass of rebels, the blast shredding them into a mist of blood, bone and smoke. Needles flew from another chamber, implanting themselves in the chests of another squad. Almost instantly, thick black scarlet bile excreted from their eyes, ears, nose and gaping mouths. They slumped to the ground, their flak armor coated in their own vital fluids. The assassin ran further down the bunker corridor, pistol at the ready.

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The assassin did not know that the Kalthas system had long suffered armed struggle, a consequence of unruly worlds dissatisfied with the dissolution of their old empire after its conquest by the Emperor over ten thousand years prior. He did not know that a charismatic demagogue had recently become head of government on the system capital, Kalthas Prime, and was plotting to declare independence from the Imperium. He would have been indifferent to these facts, whether he knew them or not. He was an instrument of the Emperor’s wrath, a tool to purge apostates and to stop their spreading of lies. His purpose was not just to kill; any assassin could do that. He was sent to send a message, to show insurgents the reward for betrayal is pitiless retribution.

“Die!” he garbled, his speech shaken by the combat drugs flowing through his veins. He had awoken in his drop pod with a rush of adrenaline, jolted to consciousness in the crater his fall to the surface had made. His senses were keen: colors more bright, smells more potent, sounds roaring. The narcotics supplied neither psychedelia nor pleasure, only pain. They deepened his agony and his ire, making it profoundly visceral, so that every muscle throbbed for bloodshed. His rage found expression only in extreme violence. He knew only a compulsion to destroy, to burn, to end all life around him.

Kicking down a door, he found himself on a stairway, facing a young man wearing a black dress uniform and a peaked hat. He shouldered a las-rifle and aimed. The assassin disarmed him with an agile spinning kick, knelt, and plunged his neuro-gauntlet into his sternum. He fell backward onto the steps, his body twisting in unnatural ways as he hemorrhaged from the toxins coursing through his system. The assassin kicked his twitching body aside as he continued deeper into the bunker.

The leaders of the rebellious government had expected the discovery of their intrigues, and so had headquartered themselves in an underground fortress fifty feet beneath the prime ministerial residence. Their defensive preparations had been expensive, extensive and utterly inconsequential to the assassin. Even from heavy cover, the laser weapons possessed by the renegade forces were inconsequential. With his biconically-enhanced dexterity, he weaved through the shots, firing his own bolter. When he closed the distance to his enemies, he slashed them with the needle-like fingers on his gauntlet. He briefly scanned their faces, searching for the chief conspirator. These were just fodder, meant to slow him down. His real targets lived on borrowed time.

Several levels and massacred soldiers later, the assassin came to a tunnel, at the end of which was a dense steel door sealing entry to the next room. A single shell from the assassin’s bolter turned it into melting alloy. Suddenly, something seized the assassin’s mind, blurring it, attacking it. He shook it off as a side effect of the drugs and continued on, but the sensation did not cease. He slammed his temple with the palm of his neuro-gauntlet, hungry to shake the feeling. A frenzied scream escaped his voice.

Humanoid figures appeared from the shadows of the dimly lit catacomb. These were not human beings. They had purple bulbous heads containing equally large brains. They had elongated arms and jaws, with the latter filled with sharp-edged teeth. They snarled at the sight of him and began to advance, propelled by sleek skeletal bodies on multiple legs. One leapt through the air, diving at the assassin, but a well-placed bolt sent it flopping to the ground, wounded but not dead. It thrashed about in torment.

They came at him in clusters, half a dozen at a time. They varied in appearance, some more human-looking than the others, some barely resembling any familiar creature. They were not just superficially alien; they were stronger and more agile. Pairs of rending claws scratched at his armor, almost tearing his skull-shaped helmet. He deflected what he could not evade, but gradually the minor injuries wore him down. When his bolter spent its last ammunition, he tossed it aside and continued to inject the monsters with viruses from his lethal glove. Fortunately, the beasts were biological and could still be poisoned, even if they did not succumb as quickly as the humans they served alongside. Despite their sickness, they stood upright and lashed out with sundering talons. The assassin could feel the room becoming more crowded with bodies, becoming less easy to navigate as he tried to fight forward, farther into the burrow.

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In his head, he heard hymnals start to play, angelic voices harmonizing in a brooding language he did not recognize. Pounding drums and the melancholic piping of an organ joined the choir. Reality seemed to slow down, every movement more deliberate, every action more telegraphed in execution. He grabbed a biting alien by the collar and, one-handed, twisted its neck, a wet snap accompanying its last breaths. At the same time, he felt something puncture his torso. He looked down to see his stomach opened, torn into pieces by pointed nails. He witnessed his own disemboweling. It served to only increase his rage. Each lobe beat rhythmically, hard and hot, soaked in a stew of natural excitement and psychostimulants. He knew what he needed to do.

From the deeper recesses of the bunker had skulked a beast larger and more horrible than the rest. It stood over seven feet tall, even squatting, with four arms ending in cutting blades. It lunged with a mowing swing; the assassin came close to eluding it. It caught him by his left arm, severing it just below the elbow, sending the limb soaring to the opposite wall. The needles on the neuro-gauntlet curled together, making the hand look like a giant dead spider. Another blade, this one of mental energy, pierced into the assassin’s skull, inflicting searing anguish. The thing, whatever it was, had potent psychic power. It locked eyes with the assassin, who found himself paralyzed and helpless. The assassin attempted to impose his will, to break free of the hypnosis, but he had become too weakened. He could not resist when the beast decapitated him.

He felt a twinge of satisfaction knowing his death would also do damage. With his brain detached from his body, his surgically-upgraded immune system no longer restrained the volatile chemicals pumping through him. Reacting to one another, they accelerated into a massive detonation. In his last fleeting moments of consciousness, as he mushroomed and ruptured, the assassin had but one coherent thought in his head: that he wished he could live a second life as an angel of death in service to the Emperor.
 

[Sirrus]

Watch Station Prescience

 

“You’re distracted,” Ulfgar said as he swung the training staff, coming close to clipping Stefanus’ nose. The Librarian skirted out of reach, the pole breezing by his face. The old Space Wolf was correct in his observation, which may as well have been an accusation given the seriousness of their drills. No matter what weighed on the mind of a Deathwatch marine, it was inexcusable to divide your attention from the matter in front of you. Also, given who he was training with, it would be potentially fatal for Stefanus.

 

Ulfgar kept the rod moving in a perfect arc, rotating it in the opposite hand and attacking with perfect ambidextrousness. Stefanus raised his own staff and parried, steel crashing against steel. The force behind the swing would have splintered wood or broken the bones of a mortal man, but to the Adeptus Astartes, these were mild efforts, beget from instinct and reflex. Subconscious mental calculations and muscle memory guided every advance, every circumvention. For a marine like Ulfgar, who had seen enough worlds reduced to ash and cinder to fill several systems, who had fought in multiple combat roles in almost infinite battles, hand-to-hand conflict meant letting go to his gut feelings, his seasoned impulses. Even if his chapter did not eschew a close reading of the Codex Astartes, he had enough wisdom about warfare to fill volumes.

 

“Are you troubled by the Inquisition?” Ulfgar ventured.

 

“I have nothing to hide from any witch hunter,” Stefanus said.

 

Ulfgar smiled. “Are you still ruffled by Brother Norbert?”

 

Stefanus sighed as if to rebuff this, but paused before lunging forward, sweeping his staff low so as to knock the Space Wolf off his feet. Ulfgar dodged it easily. “I know his respect will come in time, but his doubt of me still worries me. I am concerned it will have a negative effect on the chemistry of the Kill-Team.”

 

“You are wrong,” Ulfgar said, jabbing one end of his staff at Stefanus’ stomach. It grazed him, but hit just enough flesh to sting.

 

“You do not think it will affect the Kill-Team?”

 

“You are wrong that he will respect you in time,” snarled Ulfgar. He swung again, but this time it was a feint; he caught Stefanus across the face with a right hook. Right away, every nerve in the Librarian told him to lash out with unrestrained aggression, to escalate this sparring match into a full-fledged fight to the death. He quickly suppressed these excitants and bowed his head, in acknowledgment that the senior marine had bested him. The strike had not been serious enough to draw blood, just to wound pride.

 

“Is there not a camaraderie that comes with battle?” Stefanus asked.

 

Ulfgar shrugged. “For some, more than others. In all my time in my chapter, I only cared if the rest of my squad was competent. For that, some call me gregarious. For others, however, there are things even more important than the battle. For Norbert, it is the call of his creed. I have seen the way he looks at you. By Russ, I have seen the way he looks at me! He probably suspects I am more mutant than man as well.” His tone turned darker. “I also know that Gracchus would prefer to see me gone. Never have I met a son of Guilliman who could long abide the Wolves of Fenris longer than he had to.”

 

Stefanus found this curious, as he had never seen or heard the Ultramarine show disapproval for Ulfgar in all their time together. “Because of the Codex?”

 

Ulfgar rolled his expansive shoulders again.  “Perhaps. Perhaps he doesn’t like my long teeth. Perhaps he doesn’t like my shaggy beard. Perhaps he just doesn’t like my face.” He smiled, showing off his jagged incisors. “I’m not the one who can read minds, and even if I could, I wouldn’t much care. I’ll never have Gracchus’ approval, not if I wipe out every alien in the galaxy single-handed. He’d still say I flouted his damned book. Just as long as he does his job and I do mine, we are doing our duty. That’s all you can do, and expect Norbert to do the same. But I wouldn’t advise pining your hopes to him coming around to treating you as a true brother. You’ll be waiting a long time.”

 

A haggard cough came from the entry to the training chamber. Inquisitor Kydones stood in his dark-hued armor and funnel-shaped hat. He wore no expression, but kept his eyes locked firmly on Stefanus. “Might I have a word, Librarian?”

 

Stefanus was skeptical he could refuse, and at any rate, Ulfgar did not keep him. Breathing slightly heavily and wearing only a basic robe, the Blood Raven strode across the room and came before the Inquisitor, who motioned to the hallway. Virtually a giant beside the witch hunter, Stefanus moderated his pace so as not to outstrip Kydones, although this was difficult to do. The Inquisitor showed no intimidation or uneasiness, as mortals customarily did in the presence of the Adeptus Astartes. It was difficult not to treat this unusual confidence as arrogance, as even the newest marine was blatantly superior in almost every way to a regular human being. Stefanus reminded himself that this man wielded near-absolute power in the Imperium, and therefore was rarely cowed. A squad of marines could make a decisive difference on the battlefield, but a member of the Inquisition could order entire worlds exterminated of all life with a simple decree.

 

“The Blood Ravens is an enigmatic chapter,” Kydones said suddenly, hands folded behind him. “Your origins are obscured in legend and speculation, and for much of your history, you have been tainted by Chaos. To have your leader, the Chapter Master and Chief Librarian, fall under the sway of the Ruinous Powers is the height of disgrace and scorn. Some might feel forever abased by such a downfall.”

 

Stefanus wondered if the Inquisitor was testing him, trying to provoke him. If so, it was working. He could feel the back of his neck getting hot. He wanted to either storm off or pop Kydones’ head in his hands like an overripe piece of fruit. He knew also, however, that the words cut so deep because they were true. Stefanus felt the shame of his chapter, and more than anything, it was the greatest weight on his shoulders. “Azariah Kyras and his followers were purged from the chapter. Chapter Master Angelos provides a model example for all Blood Ravens to follow. It is said that he condemned his home-world to extermination when it was fully contaminated by heresy.”

 

“He did his duty,” Kydones said impassively. “What concerns me, however, is how many of your brothers did not. They permitted themselves to be corrupted, to turn traitor against the Emperor. It is no coincidence, I think, that so many of your brothers are able to manipulate the Warp. There are many in the Imperium, and a good number in the Inquisition, who would gladly see all psykers killed save for Astropaths and the Navigators – and would have them put on a very short leash indeed. To use psychic powers except for when absolutely necessary, they say, is to invite doom and death.”

 

Stefanus said nothing for a long moment. When it became clear Kydones was waiting for him to speak, he said: “The factions of the Inquisition do not interest me.”

 

Kydones chuckled. “Yes, it is an enviable luxury of the Adeptus Astartes that politicking and sectarian bickering is minimal, if it exists at all. Yet, you are no longer among your like-minded brothers, Librarian. Seconded to the Deathwatch, it is not just your squad and commander that has changed. You have joined an organization tied to the Inquisition, tasked with missions highly important to the High Lords of Terra. You no doubt believed joining the Deathwatch would bring you greater glory and honor. In reality, it may simply bring you greater challenges that you could never have expected.”

 

“How can there not be glory and honor without overcoming greater challenges?”

 

“Some challenges bring you renown. Others, however, the day-to-day challenges that no one notices, only bring attention if you fail. As an Inquisitor, I am expected to always be thorough in my investigations, to never miss a clue or discover something too late. But how can you always catch everything? How can you never be too late? For you, it will be the same. You can never lose control of the Warp. You can never allow the whispers of demons from beyond the veil to penetrate your mind. Never.”

 

“I will not allow that to happen,” Stefanus said firmly.

 

“You sound so sure,” Kydones said, “but you have not seen what I have seen, Librarian. I have seen entire worlds, entire species engrossed by Chaos. I have met men and women with the best of intentions who were, unwittingly, serving dark gods. I have seen carnage that would turn even your iron stomach, performed without hesitation or remorse, for no other incentive than to please the most minor of demons. It is not that I doubt your devotion or your strength, of course. It is just that – by your very nature – you are connected to the very source of our misery. You have a direct link to Hell.”

 

“What should I do then?” Stefanus said, growing annoyed. “Kill myself?”

 

“That might be the merciful thing,” Kydones said, very earnestly. “Of course, that is not the solution. You are still an asset to the Emperor, and you have service to render unto Him. But we must take steps for you to understand what it is you are up against.”

 

Kydones came to a halt before a large open door and directed Stefanus to step inside. Stefanus did so, and just as he cleared the doorway, it slammed shut with a loud hiss and locked with a piercing clinking noise. The Librarian spun around and banged on the metal hatch, but there was no give and no response. He was about to call out when the opposite wall began to move. A door opened, and on the other side was the twisted, deformed body of a massive humanoid, slobbering as it stared at Stefanus.

 

Kydones’ voice crackled over a communications system piped into the room. “I collected this unfortunate specimen during my last investigation. An unlicensed pysker, a witch, who thought he could hide from us. Chaos found him before we did.”

 

The mutant was goodly-sized for a normal human male, tall and athletic, although still below the standards of the Adeptus Astartes. His skull was long and narrow, ending in a point, and his large black eyes bugged out of his malformed head. His nose had atrophied to little more than a bump of flesh over two gaping nostrils. His mouth, full of yellowed teeth, dribbled thick, gooey saliva. Wiggling tentacles hung from his muscular arms like sentient tassels. His torso, if it could still be called that, was a mass of hair and skin, blotched with pus-filed holes and raised teats excreting an oily clear liquid. It was truly disgusting to behold, a cruel parody of a human man.

 

Stefanus began to circle the mutant, the hostility between them unmistakable. It was clear that the Inquisitor meant this as a lesson, to confront him with the horrible fate awaiting those who did not take the perils of the Warp seriously. It seemed like a hollow gesture; the Librarian would have no problem snapping the neck of the mutant, putting it down with little effort. It would have been kinder to have killed the hapless witch upon its discovery, rather than to use it as an expendable enemy in this way.

 

The Blood Raven was preparing to grapple with the mutant when he felt an intense pressure on his brain, a crushing vise that made him grab his temples in agony. He bent over at the waist, nausea washing over him, and then he noticed the mutant had grabbed him around the abdomen, dragging him to the ground. Stefanus rolled over onto his stomach, and right away the mutant mounted his back, dropping sealed fists on the crown of Stefanus’ head. The punches would not leave serious wounds, but the marine found himself paralyzed by the raw emotional impact of the mutant’s psychic might. It was unfocused and reckless, but overpowering nonetheless; the witch paid no heed to the thinning of the layer between the reality and the Warp. As the strikes landed, Stefanus could feel a stiff chill filling the room, and the haunting sound of mischievous children snickering, giggling as Stefanus lay benumbed on the sterile space station floor.

 

Concentrating, Stefanus pushed aside all the stimuli he was feeling: the pain from the punches, the sensation of the mutant sitting on the small of his back, the throbbing headache caused by the mutant’s psychic vigor. He drove out any thought or emotion until his mind was clear, a perfect void, free to act without disturbance. Breathing in slowly, he visualized in his mind throwing the mutant off him and against the wall. With seamless precision, it happened; the mutant was picked up, as if by some invisible hand, and pinned to the room’s right wall, arms akimbo. It struggled against its unseen shackles, but to no avail. If the mutant could focus, Stefanus knew, it could have resisted; it was like a wild dog clamoring against the cage, unable to examine the lock and unlatch it. Standing to his feet, Stefanus slowly moved to the mutant, meeting its eyes, watching as it fought futilely to free itself. It could no more do serious damage to the marine physically than it could emancipate itself through applied mental effort. The mind of the mutant was just as contorted and grotesque as its external shape.

 

Stefanus placed his hands around the neck of the mutant and squeezed. He could feel the hatred trying to fix itself in his mind, the revulsion at this creature that was too weak to resist the Warp, that had allowed itself to fall to Chaos, becoming an insane, unthinking beast polluted by sin. He hated that it was everything he feared for himself, that he would become a servant of Chaos like so many Blood Ravens had, that it was a fate he was helpless to avoid, even though he had never asked for his psychic powers, to be a Librarian rather than any sort of marine. The unfairness of it all chafed at him, but he pushed it down, fought against it, because it was this very anger that would lead him down a path he could not return from. He squeezed and squeezed, the breathing of the mutant becoming more panicked and more ragged, until it became an infrequent wheeze. Stefanus felt nothing as his mind, pushed to the limits of his endurance, allowed the mutant to fall, gravity pulling his body out of Stefanus’ grip. The mutant fell to the ground, dead, his tentacles no longer writhing, his mouth gaping with streams of spit.

 

“There but for the grace of the Emperor go us all,” Kydones said over the intercom.